Victor's Crown: A Hunger Games Story

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 [𝟭𝟵]

That night, there are no faces in the sky when the anthem plays. Peering through a large patch in the canopy created by the terrain's elevation, Finnick and Caspia lean against the cliff face and watch the seal of Panem hover imperiously in the sky then disappear without preamble.

"We should probably get moving," Finnick says. He can sense Caspia eyeing him and elects not to reciprocate in kind, choosing instead to keep his head tilted up to the sky, which is considerably less severe. "It's been a day since the last death. They'll be out for blood now."

He looks at Caspia then, regarding her as steadily as his nerves will allow. They have a single flashlight between them, bur Finnick doesn't feel the need to waste the batteries by shining the light on her. The moon is pure and radiant tonight, dousing them in its soft silver glow. It doesn't matter how much wealth and luxury the Capitol accrues; they will always have the same moon, the same sun and sky and stars, as the rest of Panem. The heavens are one thing the Capitol cannot take away from them. Finnick clings to the thought like a life preserver. 

"Finnick..." There's no anger in Caspia now. If there were, it would be easier for Finnick to look away. Instead, an exasperated resignation has taken its place, like she saw this confrontation coming and dreaded it.

"Are you with me?" This is how it should have been; this is how Finnick would have it over any other alliance.

Caspia tilts her head. "What if I say no? Is it a battle to the death for the tributes from District Four?"

There have been at least two Games in the past Finnick can remember featuring death matches between tributes from the same district. To be honest, the odds are so stacked in favor of the Career districts Finnick is surprised it doesn't happen more often. But both Games feature heavily in reruns and are a prominent topic of Capitol reminiscence. This, Finnick decides, will not become one of those Games.

"I'm going to do this with or without you," Finnick says. "But it would be...it would be better if you'd do it with me."

Caspia chuckles, shifting slightly. "You don't want me as your ally," she says. "They almost kicked me out of school so many times, you have no idea. I was a stubborn, contrary little brat. I'm not...good like you."

Good? The notion, the illusion of goodness being remotely involved in the Hunger Games makes an incredulous spurt of laughter bubble up in Finnick's throat. He swallows it down with some difficulty and replies, "You don't know what I am. And you know goodness doesn't win the Games."

Caspia, for all her frankness and apathy, doesn't know what it is to drive her spear between the ribs of another living being. She doesn't know what it is to look into the eyes of a dying girl and bear the ultimate burden of her death. She doesn't know what it is to forgo all of her beliefs, everything she's ever been proud of, for the sake of saving her own skin. If the Hunger Games were won on virtue, there would be no Career victors.

"I guess good wasn't the right word," Caspia concedes, picking absently at the fibers of the net in her lap. "I just...I'm not built for destiny or bigger and better things or any of the stuff you fight for. I'm scum from the Trench, and that's all I'll ever be—no crown or riches will ever change that. You, you're Mags's boy. Not one person will look at you and deny the rightness of a crown on your head. You were born for this." She flings a hand out at the arena, at the tributes still roaming and the mutts still lurking and the crown still waiting for a head. Finnick's head.

"I made myself into this," Finnick corrects. "This is the life I chose, and now I have to survive it." Volunteer or not, he wanted this chance. There's no point in denying it. Whether it was by fate or the clandestine schemes of human minds, Finnick ended up in the arena, and he's going to do everything in his power to make sure he leaves it still breathing.